


The Sound of Life

by TanTales



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-23
Updated: 2016-01-23
Packaged: 2018-05-15 18:57:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,748
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5796025
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TanTales/pseuds/TanTales
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>‘If I had to write a song about our life, it would start with the day I first met you.’</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Sound of Life

It all started with five lines. Five simple lines. A masterpiece to be written. Or that is what he thought the first time he realised that those lines were a blank staff, rather than just five parallel lines running across his skin. It was a soulmark, a sign that there was person you were born to find. Your soulmate.

The staff was blank. Black ink against white skin, an insecure song which had not been written yet. An indication that there was someone out there in the world which was meant for him. A call of attention. A call for help.

His mum shrugs when she is asked about it. Soulmarks are not common, yet not rare enough. ‘You are lucky to have one’, she says with a smile when the small boy looks confused at the lines. Her mark, an incomplete mark which never found its counterpart, is left hidden under her sleeve. An unspoken truth, a reality which he would not know until he grows up.

It is in class when he realises what it is. The teacher scribbled those lines, _his lines_ , on the board. There is no answer when the tired man asks about what it is, the children either too bored or too ignorant. He starts explaining after allowing a long sight leave his lips. He never regretted his years in the music conservatory, but he regretted choosing that age group. Too old to play with simple percussion instruments, too young to be actually interesting to teach.

The only one that is paying attention is the young boy, eyes open wide and silent for once. Music; that was the answer. He asks the teacher about _his_ staff. Confused eyes stare down at him, unsure about what the child was talking about. Then, he shows him the thin lines running across his arm, a blank canvas to be painted. The man is unsure about what to say, soulmarks are not his area of expertise. Especially soulmarks on students of whom he was still uncertain about their name.

‘That is your lover’s song,’ he explained at last, knowing that leaving a child with a question was not a smart idea, ‘they are going to write it. Little by little, until the day one of you leave.’

The boy accepted the answer, understanding that his soulmate was the one that would fill his mark, notes dancing on his skin. Music, music started to fill his life. The piano did not like him, the violin even less. The percussion was nice to him, but it was not his calling. He sang for fun, but it was not what he was meant to do. The six strings of the guitar welcomed him, but it was not done for the staff waiting on his skin.

The sound of balls hitting against the floor took him back to his percussion sessions. The physical education teacher knew he liked them. He was fast and jumped high. Excellent qualities in themselves, but there was something more. For a young boy, he had an amazing force, overpowering his groupmates. He had the potential and the stamina, which led to the teacher insisting on him picking up a sport for good.

Balls hitting the floor. That was the sound he liked. He started with basketball, but soon got bored. The sound was in the background. It was not the satisfaction he wanted, _he needed_. Then he found it, as he spiked a ball into the floor. He had been waiting for it, that strong force that travelled through his spine to tell him that he had found the sound.

Middle school went by in a blur. He stopped with music. The staff was there for his soulmate to fill, not for himself. But he needed something else. Practice was time consuming, but it helped to make all the extra energy leave him. It also took him close to his sounds. The beating of his heart, his feet running through the court, the ball hitting the floor. Soon, he would also realise that the cheers from the audience energised him. But he needed something more.

He found the notebook forgotten on a drawer. The pages were blank, like his soulmark, like the story of his life. He had a pencil in hand, procrastinating his homework, so he decided to draw. Soon, the pages of the notebook started to be filled with life. Little by little, day by day, the ignored white pages turned into a complex mixture of drawings. His imagination ran wild, finding the needed escape of which it had been deprived when he left music behind.

The notebook led to another, and what started as an afterschool treat to himself, turned into his passion. It was impossible to see him in class without his pencil creating imaginary creatures or caricatures of the teachers. One notebook turned into tens, which were full of experimentation and improvement.

It was his mother who told him about art classes. Her voice was sweet and filled of love. If drawing was what managed to calm her son down, she would try to encourage it as much as possible. He agreed, as they did not clash with his practice, and went dutifully throughout his two last years of middle school.

His first year of high school went on without incidents. Academics had never been his forte, but he managed to enter a good one thanks to both his volleyball skills and his art. On his first day he was asked to join both clubs, but he only joined the volleyball team. His art school was already good enough for him, and he was on the art program at the academy.

He once went to the music club to watch, to search if his other half was there. Eyes followed him curiously; an unexpected presence, but not completely unwelcome. ‘Do you play?’ asked a forgettable face. ‘I used to.’ he answered simply, his love for painting time with sound already buried by years with his pencils in hand.

From time to time, he still picked up his guitar and played some random tune. He hummed to himself, his voice still waiting for his soulmate to create appropriate accompaniment. He started experimenting with different materials, and on different formats. From watercolour to digital, he loved them all. Art was to space, what music was to time. And if his soulmate needed time to appear, he would wait.

On his second year it happened. The small sting of something being written on his arm. It did not hurt, it was a pleasant sensation of heat colouring his arm. He turned around, the corridor a flow of students going to their classrooms. He stood still, like a rock in the middle of a river, looking for whoever had created that sensation on his arm. The bell rang, and the flow disappeared, leaving him standing alone, waiting for someone who had already left.

It was a treble clef, sitting comfortably on his staff. _It is starting_ , he realised, _their song is finally starting_. The G-clef was alone, lonely, waiting for the rest of the song to join them. He felt butterflies flying on his stomach, making him feel sick. He had been waiting for a long time for this to happen, the image of his mum’s incomplete soulmark a constant weight on his mind.

Once the end of the day had come, his feet started to walk automatically towards the gym. Anxious first years were standing in front of the doors awkwardly, unsure about what to do. He smiled at them, memories of his first day running through his head.

The first years practiced for the first month separately, drilling the basics until their body gave up. Recovering the stamina lost over the exam season, learning how they did things in their new high school. He would sometimes help them, but the practice was mostly separated until the new members reached a certain level.

They did not speak much, but the quiet first year won his attention. He was polite, but talked back to him in a way that no other first year did. The loud boy and the quiet one, the two opposites, the different faces of the coin. ‘Stop pestering the first years’, would his classmates say between laughs and smiles. ‘Stop pestering the first years’, would repeat the third years, with authority and exasperation. ‘Stop pestering the first years’, would the first years think, but be too afraid to say aloud, social hierarchy already ingrained into their brains.

But the quiet one just rolled his eyes. He would tell him when he was being annoying to his face, the harsh truth mixed in honorifics and fake politeness. However, most times he would just silently disapprove while he followed the older boy on his whims, secretly enjoying himself.

‘Toss to me’, he would ask. The answers he received were not the ones he wanted. ‘Toss to me’ he would repeat, until one day when the first year gave up. They stayed after practice, the gym exclusive for themselves. The first time was a fail, and so was the second one, and the third one. The two boys were good in their positions, but their timing did not match up.

‘Calm down, think, wait’ the younger one said, his hands on the ball. When they finally connected, the sound was music. A large smile, a small one, a loud laugh and an awkward nod. ‘It was amazing!’ was answered by a softer ‘it was alright’.

It was until night time, that the boy realised that something had changed. Next to his lonely clef, two small numbers stood proud. _They had decided on the rhythm_ , he realised. _We have found our rhythm_ , he corrected himself, thinking back to the events of that evening.

It was so clear now. Too easy, too nice. His eyes wandered to his phone, but he stopped himself. Doubts about himself filled his mind, and the morning found him asleep over his art supplies, the white pages the only ones capable of understanding his fears.

 _Time will understand_ , he assumed, _time will solve this and that_. But time did nothing to help. It made them closer, but not enough. He picked up his guitar again, composing simple tunes which he would write on his blank staff. Small drawings started to replace the notes, and soon he had decided to make a canvas out of his arm.

‘Nothing will change if you don’t do something about it’ said the hundreds of webpages answering to the question that refused to leave his mind. ‘Nothing will change if you don’t do something about it’ said his mother, a sweet smile and understanding eyes. ‘Nothing will change if you don’t do something about it’, said his art tutor, already used to the boy’s random questions. ‘Nothing will change if you don’t do something about it’ shouted his art at him.

‘You are on the clouds today. What are you thinking about?’ worried eyes looked at him after practice. _Nothing will change if you don’t do something about it_ , ‘How do you make your soulmark change?’ he asked once again. ‘I am not sure, mine has not changed much.’ _Nothing will change if you do not do something about it_ , ‘Do you play any instruments?’ he asked at last.

Silence. Confused eyes, followed by a quick nod. ‘The violin. Why?’ A large smile illuminated his face. ‘You look like the kind of guy who plays an instrument; that is all.’ Violin, violin. A nice and versatile instrument. Memories of a violin crying on his hands, when he tried to play it flooded his mind. But it was not him who was playing, it was not his song, despite being written on him. ‘I would love to hear you play.’

‘Maybe one day’

_Maybe._

Sketchbook after sketchbook, his drawing started to change. At first it was only one eye, and then the two of them, and then the nose. Before he realised it, page after page were filled with portraits of the other boy. It was not fair, he had made hundreds of drawings for him, but the other would not give him the song that he had been promised for years.

Day by day they became closer, and day after day, his soulmark was still static. He traces the lines one by one, waiting. He writes down the start to his favourite songs, he writes down his own tunes, he draws on them, he paints on them. But at the end of the day, they are still as they were the day before. Blank. No, _almost_ blank.

It is in the middle of a training camp when it finally happened. Limbs heavy, bodies tired and minds exhausted. The lights were out, but the moon managed to illuminate enough for them to see each other. Tired smile, real and filled of love, rather than enthusiasm. ‘Good night’ he said, voice quiet. ‘Good night’, sleepy and small, but still a fond smile. Happiness flooded his body, a nice sense of warmth from that tiny smile.

The first note had appeared, he would then realise. That sense of warmth came from the change of his soulmark, rather than that quiet smile. It was only one, but it opened an infinite of possibilities for the song.

And one after another, they started to appear. One when he confessed, one just after their first kiss, one when he muttered a quiet ‘I love you’ in the middle of the night. When he showed the first part of the song to the other, another appeared, inciting the other to play. It was still short, but it kept growing every few days.

By the time they moved together, his arm was full of staffs filled with music notes. The owl on his soulmate’s back kept taking shape, with what looked like watercolour traces appearing every so often.

Note after note, they grow closer and older. Note after note, their love becomes stronger. Note after note, their story becomes longer. And before he knows it, years had passed and his body is dyed with their love song written in black.

Staffs had appeared all over his body, and not too much later they were being filled. The song is nice to play, especially on the violin. They write multiple lyrics to the tune, and they change them soon after, finding more fitting ones.

He tries to paint it. His, not, _their_ song. He tries to paint their song, but never manages to create something that represents completely all the intertwining feelings the notes create. His big smiles contrasts with the smaller ones from his soulmate, but it is not important. Because they fit. Because when they are together, it is when they are the most comfortable. Because they had always been in synch since the day the rhythm appeared on his skin. Because they were meant to be together.

Soft hands trace the lines, now on old skin which had lived too many stories, which had seen time go past. ‘There is a new one’, he said with a soft smile which had grown more confident over the years. ‘What is it? A new staff is due to appear soon, I am running out of space.’ His body was mostly filled now, music replacing the white canvas that used to be his skin.

‘It is a symbol, but not a staff’ the old man said, his voice tinted with a drop of sadness. ‘It is the bold double barline. The song is done.’ He dropped a kiss on the lines; he had accepted that that moment would eventually come.

‘It is still missing a title’ large smile, love flowing from it. Their house, and old property which had seen them grow old together, which had seen generations of neighbours grow and which now had seen the song complete itself, was filled with music sheets with their song written down. ‘And then, you will finally be able to play it correctly.’

They both knew that the moment was coming, but the quiet morning when one of them did not woke up, was still soul crushing. On top of the first staff, the one that had been since the very beginning, was the title of their song.

On the day of the funeral he picked up his violin for the last time, and finally was able to play the complete version of _Requiem to Life_.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading.   
> Go say hello @hq-tantales in tumblr :D


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